


Death's a Door

by Sotano



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Age of Apocalypse, Age of X-Man (Marvel Comics), House of M - Freeform, M/M, Magneto: I'll put all my emotions right here, X-Men: Blue, and then one day Charles will die, boy there sure are a lot of Ages of, putting all the sad shit in one place so I don't gotta think about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:41:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29608890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sotano/pseuds/Sotano
Summary: There are many realities and time periods where Erik has been alone. Magneto is fundamentally a survivor, while Charles is the perennial martyr. It creates a certain disparity.AKA snippets of all the times Magneto's been stuck picking up the pieces.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	1. Ages of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Age of X-Man follows a utopia created by Nate Grey, where mutants are peacefully the dominant species on earth but social relationships are radically controlled and romantic feelings totally outlawed. Nate is in everyone's heads, watching. He's created this world, and it's beginning to fall apart at the seams.
> 
> Age of Apocalypse follows an alternate history wherein Charles Xavier was killed in Haifa, before forming the X-Men and Erik took up his mantle instead. Unfortunately for Erik, Apocalypse saw the killing of Xavier as an opportunity, and swiftly took control of the world.

**Age of X-Man**

The bourbon wasn't helping. It didn't fog over the sharp memory of his latest burst of emotion, stronger than anything he'd felt in so many years. He'd destroyed his helmet long ago, after--after--in a gesture of openness. He was trying to prove he had nothing to hide, and for a while it seemed that was true. Erik felt _nothing_ , he was the X-Men's most rational, ideologically pure hand. A steadying presence, fully indoctrinated. Nate was right, after all. Erik knew: relationships were what had nearly destroyed their species. Selfishness. And now that--now that he was alone, it didn't matter. He'd never felt temptation after--

He downed the bourbon. He'd always preferred Scotch, before. New Erik. Beard. Bourbon. New uniform. Now his losses didn't hurt. Down an eye, and it didn't matter. None of that supervillain bullshit, no rage, no pain, no terror, no _desire_ \--

But he had blasphemed, hadn't he? For a moment, he'd felt so angry he could feel the energy of it course through him, a shot of plasma in his veins, arching from his core into his very hands. The shock of it, Ororo had seen. Not what laid beneath. He drank again. Ch--no, it was late. He was misremembering. If he had felt rage, liquid-hot in his veins, it was gone now. He could fold it in with the rest of the old Erik, somewhere behind him in his mind. Jean, or God forbid, Nate, needn't know.

His last thought before drifting into a fitful rest was that it hadn't been him, who had preferred Scotch.

Ororo had seen them too. Cracks in the wall, in the very fabric of the world. Erik had panicked, slammed metal over the offending window, showing him a daughter, and he in all black, and so much death. So much terror, on his face, but that had never _happened_. He'd never donned black for Ch--in mourning, because they'd built this instead. Xavier's dream, Nate's plan. And grief was not useful to it, and he'd separated the word Xavier from any pain it might cause him. His daughter's look of disappointed fury was foreign. She'd never confronted him like this, it was him. It had to be his mind, spinning off its wheels, imagining different ways things could have gone.

And then Ororo told him she'd seen them too, and a terrible little seed of doubt had been planted. He met Ororo in the sky, surrounded by storms and ionic interference, and wreaked his own havoc with the magnetic planes around them, and they thought maybe it'd give them a bit of telepathic privacy. They swapped notes, and Nate arrived, so, so much for that theory. He didn't seem particularly interested in their minds, though. He said something about a disturbance, and Erik exchanged a wary look with Ororo as they followed.

This crack was different. It wasn't going to be fixed with a metal sheet and a momentary blind panic. This was an entire valley. And from the crack, Erik felt heat. No, not heat. Energy. Flames, but not only of fire.

"The Phoenix... it's back?" Erik asked, level and calm and all the other things he was supposed to be.

No, this wasn't the Phoenix, this was--this was history. His history. There stood Scott, engulfed.

"Last chance, Charles," Scott said in a million voices, and the buried thing underneath Erik's smoothed-over surface could practically mouth the words.

There was Magneto, stepping between the two of them, Ch--Xavier on his knees in the sand. For a moment, another memory flashed, and Magneto was ushering a weakened Charles behind him in France, at his trial. But no. This version of him was even more abysmally unsuccessful at protecting Charles.

"Magneto?" Scott asked, surprised. In the heat of the moment, Erik had fancied that perhaps something of Scott had emerged from the Phoenix that could be surprised. He felt Charles try to grasp at it with his powers. Folly. Hubris, they were just two men, Scott was a God. Scott was _God_.

Something tore through Erik, now, transfixed by this memory writ large in the valley before him. Too many emotions to name, too much blasphemy to absolve.

"I... I was the one who brought Xavier to Utopia that day," he said, though to who he wasn't sure.

Guilt felt black and slow in him, like tar. In the memory, Magneto bared his teeth behind a helmet.

"Scott," he'd said. "Think of everything this man gave you. Don't throw it to the fire."

Erik knew what came next. He couldn't watch, but he couldn't look away. Tears poured uselessly from his one good eye, for the second time in a day. Grief felt cold, gripping. It shoved even the guilt aside, until he was as consumed as Scott. He remembered now. He'd always hated grief the most. Charles burned up before his eyes. God, he wanted to--he wanted--something was in here with him. Why couldn't he finish his thoughts?

"Nate," Erik said, now, horror dawning. He felt that rage in his fingertips, he felt it make his face snarl. "What are you doing, inside my mind?"

"I'm sorry," Nate said, pleasant as anything. A little pitying, perhaps. "You weren't supposed to see this, but it all happened so fast. I'm doing the best I can."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Ororo demanded.

"The last few years have been so hard on mutantkind. I gave us the story we deserve. I gave us Xavier's dream, I fixed it. Don't you understand? We've finally got peace, and all it cost us was our selfishness. Our attachments."

Energy was gathering around Nate.

"I don't know what you've done, but it stops now," Erik said, voice low. Charles. How could he have abandoned Charles so completely? He'd abandoned the grief he owed the man.

Ororo was reaching to hold him back, trying to resolve things, thinking _rationally_ , and suddenly he was in his room again, feeling nothing.

What had he been doing? When had he--? He tried focusing his mind on the events of the day and he kept drawing a blank, until he snagged on something. Ch--Xavier-- _Charles_. It wasn't emotion, he told himself, shaking his head as if the thought might come loose. It was simple fact: he'd gotten Charles killed, and he'd done nothing.

Nothing but erect a bunch of statues and change his cape. It was Xavier Day, today. Why did that seem so--wrong? Suddenly it wasn't enough. But at that moment an emergency alert klaxon sounded, and the X-Men were being deployed in New York.

Terrorists, extremists. Advocates of love and freedom of emotion, soapboxing. Erik wasn't sure what to think, any longer, he wasn't sure what to feel. Apocalypse's benign blue smile graced the frenzied crowds. His words were base, airily blasphemous, spinning yarns about desire and hedonism. Things Erik knew were dangerous. Things which did not concern him.

"Your love gives us strength," he said, voice unnaturally powerful. He and Jean, the airbound X-Men deployed, rushed him, and Apocalypse turned to watch them approach.

"Even Charles Xavier had many lovers," Apocalypse said in that same tone, staring straight at Magneto, who felt a phantom knife twist. He couldn't know. Know--what? A memory shook itself free: the two of them, laughing, kissing lazily on a balcony.

The door Erik kept it all behind, somewhere deep in his mind, knocked hard. Erik swallowed. Charles, some treacherous part of his mind whispered. You wanted it, once. You want it still, in the heresy of your private thoughts.

"Charles," Erik said, to no one. He'd not break. He wasn't weak. The word was forced from him, but it was fine. Colossus had broken, no one was listening to him. The entire plaza watched the steel giant kiss the mutant girl, as if his life depended on it. No one noticed that Erik was drowning.

\--------------------------------

**Age of Apocalypse**

Their hideaway at the mansion in New York looked more run-down every time Gambit saw it, and Rogue more beautiful. She was looking out of tall, handsome bay windows, somehow unbroken, into a thoroughly ruined garden and the starry sky above. One thing about the decimation of North America by Apocalypse and his _cullings_ , they cut pollution way down. Gambit was of course being reflexively flippant, especially in the privacy of his own head, because Rogue had a pensive expression on her face that made him ache.

He sat down next to her. Not too next to her, mind, but close enough that they were sitting together. She barely registered his presence.

Following her gaze he saw Magneto disappearing into the dark, somewhere in the dense foliage. He vaguely remembered that there had been an entrance to the chambers beneath the mansion out that way, but there was no way Magneto's little training room still had power; not when the lights in the dining room flickered precariously and the generator seemed held together by Magneto's willpower alone.

"He's splitting us all up, chere," Gambit said, resigned. "Last-ditch, save the world stuff."

"Knock it off, Remy," Rogue said, bringing her knees up and pulling two arms around them.

"You can't possibly think any of this is going to work."

"What other choice do we have? Erik's--"

"--Don't call him that with me."

Rogue shot him a withering glance. "This ain't the time to be jealous, Gambit."

"You think I'm jealous of that depressed bastard? No, chere, because you don't love him, and he certainly don't love you."

She rolled her eyes at that. "Everyone thinks he's cold, because he makes the tough decisions."

"That's not what I think. I think he's not over the dead guy, and you're both delusional."

"Remy, you should go. You get paranoid when you're low on sleep."

Gambit shifted his weight, resting an arm on his knee. Rogue's full lower lip was drawn tight, but there was still a certain degree of fondness in her eyes for him. Gambit was an excellent gambler, and he was betting on that expression being just enough change to cover his next prod.

"Marie, he named the kid Charles."

"You're such a child. How could you be thinking about a thing like that at a time like this?"

"I think about you all the time," Gambit admitted, looking out. "You're the only reason I came back to this fucking place, and now I find you've got a little one runnin' around. Playing family with that egomaniac."

"I wanted a kid, all right?" she snapped. "I wanted one, and he's the only person who's even able to touch me, Remy, so, yes. I had a kid. You know what? He's not the worst man I could have picked. He gives a damn, about me and his son. And now me an' Charles are something like happy, here, which is more'n I can say for your sorry ass. I have something to fight for, maybe that's why I'm focusing on the mission and you're playing romance games. At least Erik can think about something other than getting laid."

"You know I'm not thinkin' bout that, chere. How could I be?"

Marie's expression softened, and then grew annoyed. "C'mon, Gambit."

"I'm laying my life down, tomorrow, too. And I'm doing it for you and your kid. I'm not asking for nothing else, chere. You just ought to do some thinking about what kind of life you want for that boy."

Rogue's hand disappeared into her thick curls as she palmed the back of her neck. Before she could respond, Gambit left.

Somewhere under the mansion, Magneto was having a very different conversation, coming to many of the same conclusions.

"Charles," Erik murmured in the dark. "I'm going to get them killed. I'm so sorry."

All this for someone he'd known for one year a decade and a half ago. And yet, Magneto couldn't shake the feeling that when this was all over, he'd face Charles again, and lay his failures at the man's feet, and measure them up against Charles' lofty expectations. His dreams and his ambitions for mutantkind and for Magneto. The apology he'd have to beg from the man who laid down his life on the mere _chance_ of Erik Magnus Lehnsherr.

How much Erik loved this ghost. If there was a heaven, he wondered how much contempt must rain down on him from it, or worse, how much pity. The mansion barely had power, but he fed the generator some of his strength and a screen flickered on, showing the two of them, smiling on a beach. Erik couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't supposed to happen like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"What's this dying for?" asks the Stork that soars_   
>  _With the Owl high above canyons' mighty walls_   
>  _Owl said, "Death's a door that love walks through_   
>  _In and out, in and out, back and forth, back and forth"_


	2. Locked Doors, or X-Men Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> X-Men Blue follows the time-displaced original X-Men: Jean, Scott, Hank, Bobby, and Warren, as they start working with Magneto in the modern comics era, only just before Charles Xavier's return to life. Of course, Erik doesn't know that. He just knows these kids are going to get themselves killed, or erased from the timeline, and Charles would never forgive him if he let that happen.

**X-Men: Blue (2017)**

Their place in Madripoor looked unassuming from the outside, but within it was a fortress. She'd been expecting more metal, honestly, but the reality was oddly both comforting and way creepier. Magneto decked the place out like the X-Mansion. All green velvet curtains and dark wood floors and bookshelves. He'd soundproofed it, though, which was a point in his favor, and Jean's room had a great view. He was taking pretty decent care of them; the "Original X-Men"; so far from their place in the timeline.

They were training to fight him.

In secret, of course. Hank had hotwired the Danger Room to wipe their history. They kept getting their asses kicked by the Magneto projection, though, so for now it was a moot point. And Jean hoped it'd stay that way. When Magneto came to them with his offer of sanctuary, asking them to do the whole superhero thing with him playing Charles-in-the-background, she was wary. But he showed her his mind, showed her how desperately he didn't want to be the guy she remembered.

She and the others had to learn a lot, Jean had them studying cultural history three times a week. She also had to unlearn a lot, and she was still in the process of unlearning Erik Magnus Lehnsher, AKA their biggest big bad. In her timeline, they'd only fought him like three times. And in his mind, she saw _hundreds_ of fights. But she also saw the little boy, telling her it wasn't safe, telling her _he_ was there. Erik had his own monsters, very much including himself. She didn't want to fight that little boy.

But there were other doors in his mind that had remained locked. She'd tried to be clever about them, but Erik was way too good at the game. Suspiciously good. Better than some telepaths Jean had encountered. He was hiding something from her. Multiple somethings. So, she had the boys train, just in case.

She was a good leader like that. And there were other ways to get secrets from people. She'd done some exploring, in the house. She'd found a few interesting points. First: some of this shit was actually Charles'. She was almost certain some of the books on the shelves were the same copies Charles had given her, and she'd gotten solid confirmation after finding a note she'd made in the margins of The Count of Monte Cristo. She broke into an unused study and found Charles' desk.

For two, the weird robo-butler, Ferris, knew something. He would feign does-not-compute when she asked questions about Magneto's intentions, or about his character. And for three, relatedly, she was pretty sure the robot was trying to get Magneto on anti-anxiety meds. The medical cabinet even stocked Xanax, and unless Jean was wildly misreading the mental state of her own team, and she _wasn't_ , they weren't for the teens in the building. All the mental health meds seemed pretty much untouched, but Jean noticed they recycled quite a few bottles of whiskey.

Together, none of this painted a great picture.

Tonight she'd decided to do a bit of light snooping in the study when she realized Erik was already inside.

"Jean," he said. His voice had a certain warmth, she noticed it with Scott too. A weird affection she hadn't earned. "Is everything all right?"

He was wearing black jeans and a tee shirt. He looked more like a washed-up rock star than a supervillain. One of the first things Jean ever did when she learned how to use search engines was to look up what Keith Richards looked like, after hopping forward in time a couple decades. This felt a little like that, except that Magneto was still built like a tank.

"Hi, Erik," she said. "I'm fine. Just, you know, wandering."

He gave her a look like he was generously accepting that explanation, and poured himself a drink. Well, she might as well try it, she'd come here to get some answers and a drunken Master of Magnetism might be more informative than an empty office.

"Is that the Professor's desk?" she asked.

Erik touched it thoughtfully. "His old one. Kitty Pryde has the newer one, the lighter one, in New York. He left me a few things."

"It's so strange to think, but I guess it makes sense. Charles always said you two used to be close."

"You're young, Jean. It's a Friday night, we're in one of the most exciting metropoles on the planet. Aren't there, I don't know, better uses of your time?"

Jean made a dismissive gesture at the obvious sidetracking. "Pssh. Madripoor is exciting every night of the week. It's not so often I get to drink with my arch-enemy."

"Who said anything about _you_ drinking?" Erik asked, sipping his whiskey. That adult thing of being largely unaffected by the burn of it was still a bit odd to Jean. It struck her as a little masochistic, when there was every possible drink available in this place. Ferris could even make him a cocktail, probably. But, men.

"So you're fine with, say, punching a child in the face. But underage drinking is where you draw the line?"

Magneto winced, with a quick touché gesture. She sat down on the couch, he reclined against the desk.

"I've been here before," he said. "If I give an inch, you children take a mile. I have to put my foot down somewhere, or else I wake up one day and Bobby's asking for a Cadillac because I let Scott have a motorcycle because I let Hank have a new sound system."

"That's... noticeably specific," she said.

Erik drank again. "Child," he said. "I have fucked this up more times than you would believe."

"Your kids?"

He barked a laugh at that. "No. Absentee father doesn't even begin to cover it with my own children. I meant I've been a teacher to another one of your little X-cadres before. A later generation than yours. You've met Magik."

"Wow, you really _did_ fuck up," she remarked dryly, and he laughed. Something in his laugh rang false, or just... tired. Like, he wanted to find it funny, but couldn't find the energy. Still, it was companionable enough. After a little break of silence, she spoke up again.

"Can I ask you what I was like?" she asked.

"I don't think that would be a good idea. I wouldn't be the best expert, at any rate."

"What about what he was like?"

"Scott?" Erik asked, pouring himself another glass.

Jean shook her head. "Charles."

Erik stopped pouring. It was a sore spot. One of those locked doors reared its head in Erik's mind, just below the surface. Jean didn't try it, he'd sense if she so much as stepped into his mind.

"He helped me when I was a kid," she explained. "And then he put the X-Men together, and I was really just starting to feel like it was a home, like we were--you know? And then, poof, I'm here, and he can't see us because of some time anomaly stuff, and then he's just _gone_ , and everyone knew him so much better than we ever got the chance to. It feels..."

She trailed off, but Erik nodded. "Unfair," he supplied. "Charles was--he loved you all very much. He'd be so happy to hear you were taking up a leadership role with the team. But I suppose you'd gathered that."

Jean shrugged. It was, more or less, what everyone said. Erik frowned, shifted forward, quieted himself again.

"He was like you," Erik said finally. "He was clever, always too clever for his own good, and always worried about everyone else a little more than he ought to be. Always picking mismatched fights, but never without thinking them through. He could see the angle nobody else did. He could see inside people, not just the way a telepath could. Weaknesses and strengths nobody would realize in a million years. Nosy, stubborn, ingenious, manipulative, kind. He was like you. Which was why he needed someone like me."

Jean must have shown her surprise, but Erik didn't seem to want to say any more on the matter.

"I feel like maybe I'm starting to forget his face," she admitted. Erik looked a little struck, still for another moment, before turning away to rifle in the compartment below the desk.

He pulled out a photograph, assessed it for a moment, and handed it to her. It was yellowed, but obviously a recreation. In the photograph, Jean and the boys gathered around Charles, smiling to their ears in their brand-new X-Men uniforms. Jean was knelt down, arms around Charles' elbow as he sat in the chair at the center, and Charles in turn clasped her hand over with his, smiling his muted warm smile in his prim tweed jacket.

"I remember taking this," she said.

"I thought you might," Erik mused. "Keep it, of course. I've plenty others."

"Bobby had finally convinced the Professor that he didn't really need a uniform under the snow," Jean said, amused. It was such a clear memory. It was two years ago, for her.

"Don't remind me," Erik said, affecting a put-upon tone. Something was nagging at the back of her mind. The desk, the way Magneto had casually mentioned he had _photographs_.

"Charles had a photo of you," Jean said, sudden, eyes snapping up. "On his desk. You two were a thing, weren't you?"

Erik eyed her. "Remarkable. You were the first to figure it out in our timeline as well."

It made sense. The way they talked about each other--heartbreak. Worked a lot better than a friendship-fallout. A few things slotted into place in Jean's mind. Oh, she thought.

"He's dead. That's what you didn't want me to see in your head. You're not okay."

It hadn't been an anxiety diagnosis, she added in her mind, but _depression_. Ferris was probably on the money, there, she realized, but Magneto seemed to prefer to self-medicate.

Now Erik flashed emotion. "I won't tolerate that kind of--"

"--No, no, I'm sorry, you're right. It's just... I thought you were... planning something. I thought that there was a plot behind those locked doors."

"I--" Erik silenced himself. "What?"

"I thought you were hiding, you know, supervillain secrets from me. If it's just _that_."

Erik's expression changed for a moment, to a sort of chagrined relief. " _Just that_ , she says. Young people."

"Are you going to tell me about it?"

"Do I have to?"

"No," Jean said. "But I think eventually you're going to have to tell someone, and it might as well be me."

He took another drink. "I loved him. In fact, I think I was probably jealous of you all, in a way, at least at first. He loved you with an unmitigatedness I'm afraid I could never really deserve. None of this leaves this room, by the way," he added, suddenly serious.

Jean crossed her heart. "It's none of my business anyway. But, thank you. And I'm sorry."

"I'm not in mourning any longer," Erik said, dismissive even if it rang a little hollow. "Charles would kill me if I let it get in the way of things."

"He wouldn't. He'd be infuriatingly understanding."

Erik's eyebrows quirked into an exasperated, knowing expression, raising his glass in a mock toast.

"Is it difficult, to be around Scott? I'm sorry, is that an awful thing to ask? It's just that you two seem to get along well. Maybe get along is the wrong way to put it."

"Scott's always had a little more of _me_ in him," Erik said. "From the beginning. He's a little more reactionary, a little more bitter. Right down to the thing for telepaths."

Jean laughed.

"But no. Charles loved him, right to the last second. It wasn't Scott's fault, and even when it was, it's less important than the love. Try to go easy on him. Adult Scott and yours. They're good people at heart, they just get too tangled up in themselves."

"And that's where the telepath comes in," Jean offered.

"You know what," Erik murmured, pulling another cabinet open. "I've changed my mind."

After a moment of rooting around, Jean heard glass clinking as he pulled out a fresh rocks, inspecting it in the light of the study, and satisfied, gesturing towards her. When she shrugged and nodded, universal for _don't mind if I do_ , he poured her maybe a finger of whiskey at most, and topped it up with soda. He sat down at the chair behind the desk, leaning back, crossing one leg over the other. It was a weird thing to note, but he still sat like a supervillain.

"Try that on," he said, with an air of satisfaction, and she obligingly floated the glass from his hand to hers.

Jean took a sip, mostly suppressed a shudder, and eyed it with what she hoped was a plausible not-bad expression, which seemed to amuse Magneto.

"Sure beats throwing boats at each other," she said.

"Well," he said. "I believe I said something about your propensity for mismatched fights."

"The Professor once said you'd take on half the world if that was what it took."

"Yes, but in my case, that'd be a fair fight."

Jean laughed again. Each time felt more genuine. She'd come into this conversation an interrogator and she was gearing up to leave as a confidant.

"Underage drinking aside," she said, "you're really not bad at all this."

"That's a fairly big aside," he remarked, finishing his drink again. Three or four?

"All right," she agreed. "Maybe a little less drinking all around."

"I'm the master of magnetism," he said, pouring another. "Not a miracle worker."

She'd relaxed too much. As had he. Her laugh this time was interrupted by something pressing, from Magneto. A telepathic fucking _shout_ , like a sound that had burst from the lips of someone trying to hold their tongue. And once it started, it was like a dam had burst.

_\--Charles, you swore we'd build something together this time, you weren't supposed to leave me, these problems are yours, you're supposed to be here to fix them to fix me to save her I can still see you in the fire I can feel your powers in Red Skull's brain I keep the Skull downstairs I want to destroy it but I'm scared I'll lose the last piece of you I can hear you whispering to me from the past I know there are threats coming for these children in the timeline I'll murder anyone who comes near them I miss you so much I ache all the time, it was me I asked you to come to Utopia because I was afraid for your son for Scott and my fear got you involved got you killed I was so close to you I could almost touch you why didn't I why did I try to fight the Phoenix I say you're the one who picks bad battles but it was always me I could have had another second at least or maybe you were busy fighting it Charles she's so much like you and you're not even here to see--_

"-- _That's_ quite enough, I think," Erik said, and in his mind there was a sensation like a lid closing, or like a bear trap snapping shut. Oh God, which meant that she'd followed the trail into his mind. She'd taken most of that out of him.

"I--I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, it's my powers, they're still growing, I swear I didn't mean to pry--"

"I understand, of course. Entirely not your fault, child," Magneto murmured, rubbing his forehead with the fingers of his right hand. He pinched the bridge of his nose next, eyes wrenched shut as if in pain.

Oh, of course he was in pain. He was in massive pain.

"Do you want me to get Ferris? Or--" she stopped herself, because, well, he actually didn't really seem to have anyone else. Her next port of call would probably have to be, like, Kitty Pryde.

"Don't worry about me," he said, a little wry. "Trust me, I've had worse psychic mishaps. I'm sorry you had to see that."

She shook her head. He appraised her, finally, and offered a sort of somber look.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to refrain from dwelling on any of that. And to try your best to refrain from rooting around up here again," he said, gesturing to his temple. "Some of my secrets are not so benign."

If those were Magneto's benign thoughts, Jean decided, he'd probably better hold on to that Xanax prescription. But she promised, of course, and she put the memories to one side, until that bit about Charles whispering from the past became a bit too relevant.

When the timeline got screwed sideways, she came face to face with the Magneto she remembered. The over-the-top, egomaniacal monologuer, with the dramatic flair and the casual cruelty. The guy future-Erik cringed at and was afraid of in equal measure. She treated him like a child, to the open-mouthed horror of the rest of the team, but she understood now. She said the magic words: you and Charles, together, in the future. And it wasn't untrue, but she felt like a bad person when she saw the odd little heartbreak in his eyes, the disbelief that was almost like hope. After that, past-Magneto was an absolute breeze, and when they righted the timeline, future-Erik clasped her on the shoulder and did his best to look like an adult when he said he was proud of her. And when he really lost it, later, she had a lot more sympathy than the boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magneto is highkey an alcoholic, and Ferris really did want him medicated


	3. House of Mourning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House of M is a sort of alternate timeline, created by Wanda Maximoff at her brother's behest. In order to ensure that none of the heroes ever "wake up" she uses her powers and Charles' to give everyone a life that they wanted. Sometimes, though, she misses the mark atrociously. She built her father this paradise where he could rule, but she couldn't keep Charles in the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based mainly on Civil War House of M. Some influence from actual House of M, and a dash of the Secret Wars House of M from 2015.

Robbed. He felt robbed of more time with Charles. By Bucky Barnes, of all fucking people. The absurdity of it galled him. Something felt so wrong, in his bones.

"Bucky fucking Barnes," he muttered, pouring himself a drink. He had no real duties today. One of the children could handle anything that came up. No one would notice Magnus day drinking. He pulled a curtain aside to check that it was, indeed, daytime.

The light hit him all at once, confirming his hypothesis and shooting pain through his right temple. He could practically feel his pupils struggle to contract.

Barnes was a creature out of a children's cartoon. As a young man, Magnus remembered seeing Bucky Barnes dolls everywhere, even in the Eastern Bloc. He was wholesome, all-American--it was like Mickey Mouse himself had come to life, just to stab Charles to death.

If they hadn't been fighting, just before the attack, if he hadn't distracted Charles' powers with their anger. If Magnus had been a little faster.

 _If he'd never instigated all of this in the first place,_ whispered the traitorous voice in his mind. If Magnus had never had the Vice President killed, bringing all of this to a head. The love of his life would still be alive, still too good for this world, but maybe Magnus could have eventually shown him another one.

He downed his drink, ditched the glass. He was in his red robes, still limping perceptibly from the ceramic bullets in Barnes' gun. It wasn't fair. Magnus had been _right_ , damn it. The catalyst had worked. They'd taken over. The House of M ruled the continent. Soon the world, realistically speaking. Functionally, they already controlled everything. He drank from the bottle, hoping that the burn would take him out of his own head.

It was barely even a dictatorship, they were so popular. And mutants were finally safe. He'd been right!

"It's everything you ever wanted," Wanda had said to him, arm draped lovingly around his shoulder, after the rest of his children had abandoned him. God, he deserved it. He probably even did it that way, surprising them with it, ambushing them with the surprise-I'm-the-deadbeat-dad thing so that they'd run screaming. He deserved it.

Everything he ever wanted. Magnus hurled the bottle at the wall with enough force to make his bullet-torn muscles ache. The bottle shattered, spilling glass and whisky in its wake.

It wasn't enough. Not without him.

The viscerality of the bottle reminded him of Lorna's mother playing socialite revolutionary, of throwing Molotov cocktails in his youth. He begged her to get away from him, and she did. Wanda's and Pietro's mother, he didn't even need to beg. She ran away at the first _glimpse_ of who Magnus really was.

Charles was the only one who never ran.

He would make America wish it never made that fucking shield. The one he impaled Charles' killer on. The bloodied metal disk he sent flying through the oval office, finally declaring his war in person. Anyone who so much as _thought_ the words Captain and America together--Charles' last words had been to beg Magnus to forgive them.

He'd tasted blood when they kissed. Charles had died with a smile on his face, damn him, because he'd known. Magnus was terrified of disappointing him, not that he was even sure he believed in an afterlife. He'd fight the cruelty in his soul, for a little while, at least. Numb it.

At some point he'd made it to Charles' memorial. Dappled sunlight and the shadows of leaves rustled over Charles' name, writ in metal.

"This isn't healthy," Lorna called from behind him. "Father," she added, still unsure of the term.

"It's only been a month. Give me a few years and I'll show you unhealthy."

Lorna had come back first, on a sort of probationary level. Trying it out, this whole family thing. Pietro was still running, but, well... Let him. Magnus wasn't in a position to do any actual parenting. She looked good, she seemed all right. He didn't deserve the uncomfortable, slightly begrudging love in her expression.

"You're going to have to start, you know, _ruling_ , pretty soon. Genosha's waiting on your word."

"This is going to sound worse than it is," Magnus said, "But I was never meant to live through to this part. I was supposed to be the vanguard. A warrior for the revolution. It was the next generation I always imagined getting to this place."

"The warrior is dead," Lorna said, a little wry. "Long live the King."

She put her hand on his shoulder. It projected an odd certainty. Lorna was strong, she expected the same of him. And he found that perhaps he could, for her. A King...

Lorna had found him, after Charles died. He'd been all tactics. How many dead? Next move, next play, take advantage of the chaos to take the presidency out. Cripple SHIELD. She was the one who'd seen through it, who'd seen Charles laid on the floor with a knife up his ribs, and looked back to Magnus with a horrible understanding.

He didn't know what kind of King he'd make, but he was shaping up to be a rather refined absurdist.

"Wanda and I are having lunch, anyways," she said. "I thought maybe you'd want to join. But if you're not up to it, you know..."

He wasn't. "Sounds wonderful," he said. "Let's go."

Another problem with Charles being gone: telepaths kept him honest. Their last conversation, before the attack, had been an argument. Magnus had expected it to be the usual; Charles galled at his lack of care for human life et cetera et cetera, sex somewhere, maybe a few compromises to smooth his wounded sensibilities.

"Then you're not even ashamed enough to deny it?!"

"Lie to a telepath? What's the point?"

It devolved into a shouting match from there. He'd underestimated Charles' anger on that one, and yet when the attack came Charles fell to his side without a second thought. He'd refused to call Magnus to him, refused to compromise Magnus' life. He'd watched the tapes a hundred times by now. Barnes threatening to kill him unless he drew Magneto into the trap laid. Charles' kind words, arguing with Barnes' wild-eyed fury. Defending Magneto's speech, his worldview, the one Charles didn't even _agree_ with. Stabbed with a ceramic blade, and only then when he was sure Barnes wouldn't pull the trigger to bring the roof down; too riled up and desirous of a confrontation with Magneto, too sure that Charles' dying would make an adequate distraction; did he call Magnus to come take care of this interloper. Tactically brilliant as always, Charles had swapped out the deaths of thousands of Genoshans, and Magnus, for just his own.

Lorna took him by the arm, dragging him back into the present. She was also very gifted, tactically. Lunch. With Wanda and Lorna. He could do it. Pretend to be all right for an hour. He was drunk enough to pull that off, probably.

"It's just us," she said, and that understanding look reared its head. Her emerald-green eyes scanned him, looking for anything that might inspire a bit of confidence.

He willed his limp out of existence. "It'll do me some good, to be around you young people."

Lorna smiled a little crookedly, she'd taken that from him. "And to eat food that isn't liquid."

"Oh, go ahead and pretend that what you're eating is healthier," he said. "I've seen the kitchen here. A steady diet of croissants and coffee will kill you just as quick."

Lorna laughed, hiding it behind sleek fingers. Her nails were painted green. She had a future ahead of her, now. All Magnus had to do was defend it.

Somewhere in his head he felt a door closing that he wouldn't open again for a little while. He couldn't, if he was going to do this. If he was going to be King. Be 'father', with Lorna's worried inflection. The door sectioned off a surprising chunk of his mind; rooms and rooms he couldn't go into.

"I love you," he said, and meant it with everything he still had. Lorna hugged him a little too tightly, as if it all might be a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grief's a door with a bunch of rooms behind it, gathering dust, ready for you to come and take a tour. Locking the door isn't healthy, but neither is slumping down in the doorway drinking whisky. Love is walking through the door every once in a while, to remember how the rooms are decorated.
> 
> Pseudo-psycho-analysis aside, Magneto is not now, nor has he ever been, okay. But one day there'll be an island, and Charles knows that he can't stop the way Magneto handles death, so he'll stop death instead.


End file.
